We're Not In England Anymore
by EloiseHarvey
Summary: Things are different in Narnia; the way they live, the way they love, the way they value their people. The Pevensie's bear witness to these differences.
1. Revelation

**Revelation**

Narnia was so very different to England. Not just in that the beasts talked, and the trees danced, and the rivers and streams were alive with silvery laughter. It was not even that there were creatures he had only read of walking among; centaurs, satyrs, fauns, gryphons, even the occasional unicorn if one went far enough south. And Aslan. Edmund felt sure that such a majestic being could never be found in the dull grey of England.

But it was none of these differences that stood out so enormously to Edmund. No, what presented itself so clearly to him was the way that the Narnians lived, and the way that they loved one another.

He had first borne witness to the Narnian love back before the defeat of the Witch when the Eternal Winter reigned, and all of Narnia held its breath in fearful anticipation of the Witch's wrath. His siblings and he had been alone and fearful, in the middle of an unfamiliar forest in a strange new land they had discovered in the back of the wardrobe. The Beavers has taken them in, and—however ungrateful for it Edmund might have been at the time—had fed them, and had provided a warm, safe—or it had been until he had sold them out to the Witch. How he wished that he might go back then, and the right the wrongs he had committed—place for them to stay. Following the betrayal of Edmund, they—at great risk to themselves—had guided his siblings to where Aslan awaited them at the Stone Table. The Beavers had done them a great service, and would forever hold the gratitude of the four monarchs.

Following the Beavers, there had been the unpleasant detainment of himself at Jadis' camp, and his subsequent rescue. Edmund would forever be in the debt of the noble creatures who had rescued him, a traitor to Narnia who had sold out his siblings for the promise of poser and Turkish Delight. As though their rescuing him had not been kindness enough, the Narnians, following the lead of Aslan, had forgiven his traitorous ways and put their faith in the change of his character. He felt a particular love for those who had been willing to fight for him when Jadis had come to the camp and announced that his life was hers for the taking.

His execution had never come to pass, and—despite Susan and Lucy, although her efforts were somewhat half-hearted compared to those of their elder sister, trying their hardest to keep the truth from him—had at last uncovered the reason why. Aslan had taken his place. It was like some ancient story, in which a traitor is sentenced to death, and a divine being dies in his place, only to rise again in beautiful splendour and smite down the evil that walked the land. He was half-convinced that he had heard the starry before, perhaps in England. But his memories of the other place were fading, and all that remained of the story was a faint sketch and a conjured image of bloody thorns.

The Narnians nights have forgiven his faults, but it was Aslan who loved him first. The Lion had loved him enough to die in his place, and Edmund would return that love to the fullest of his ability.

It was not just the love of he and his siblings that surprised Edmund. It was their love of each other. It was the way that the Felines and the Canines snapped and snarled at one another, but had fought united as one against an outside foe. It was the way that Centaurs were aloof, and sometimes haughty, but were the first to offer assistance to an injured Narnian. It was the way the Naiads were peaceful and placid, content to spend their days in the depths of the water, but if any man dared to touch one of their sister dryads, woe betide he if he found himself near the water's edge.

Edmund's memories of England may have been fading, but he felt certain that it had not been that way in England. There had been no offering comfort to a classmate who had turned an ankle—to do so would have been scorned, sneered at by the other boys. Whoever had dared do such a thing would have been regarded as unmanly, and whispers of girl, sissy, queer, would have followed them through the halls.

In England, women did not defend other women. That was the role of a man, a father, a sweetheart, a husband. But never a sister. For such a thing to happen would be a scandal, and the unfortunate woman would have found herself the object of much ridicule, for having Daren intrude on what was a man's world. In any case, even the men were rarely called upon to defend their womenfolk, for the women in question were rarely presented with the opportunity to share her unhappy tale without further fear for herself.

The way that the Narnians showed love so freely somewhat baffled Edmund, but at the same time, it filled him with a deep, aching envy, for he knew, deep in his heart, that he would never be able to love the same way they did, fully and unconditionally. There would always be some part of him that resisted, a tiny piece of his mind telling him no, this is not the way of things.

The only one of his siblings who understood the envy he felt was Susan. Unlike their golden brother and sister, who had opened their heart to the whole of Narnia without the slightest hesitation—especially Lucy, but she had always been one for loving—Susan felt the same resistance he did, the way that a fundamental part of them said no.

It was with Susan that he saw the first thing that had terrified him since the Witch. Really and truly terrified him, not like the nerves he'd felt as he was crowned, or the way that his hands had shaken before the battle. This had struck him to the core, had turned his insides to ice and sent his heart leaping to his throat.

They had been taking a walk in the garden, which had quickly become a favourite place of his elder sister. They had strolled aimlessly along the paths, talking of nothing, and savouring one of the few peaceful moments they had had since the coronation. Susan has been telling him of some new archery technique when they had rounded a corner and come across the sight which had terrified Edmund so.

Tangled together in an embrace and kissing one another fiercely were Ilad and Maris. A strangled choking sound had escaped his throat, and the satyrs had sprung apart, flushing furiously when they saw who had happened upon them. Edmund had thought why aren't they running? Why aren't they scared? For seeing that neither of their monarchs seemed likely to scold them, Ilad had broken into a bashful grin and Maris was studiously examining the hem of Susan's dress.

He had felt her hand latch on to his elbow and had heard a murmur that Ilad and Maris were dismissed. But his panicked brain refused to make his feet move on their own, so Susan had to guide him forward. He barely registered when they stopped, only that the sand beneath their feet had turned into firm turf.

"Edmund." Susan's voice was gentle, living up to her name, but it made him flinch away from her all the same, pulling his arm from her grasp. "Edmund."

He turned to look at her but didn't move any closer. He dropped his gaze to the ground again, where his fist was clenched around a clump of grass. "They didn't care," he muttered.

"What was that, Ed?" Her voice was still gentle and had taken on a soothing quality, as though he were a frightened animal who was likely to spook at too loud a noise. He swallowed, wishing he could take the words back. Instead, he repeated them.

"They didn't care. That we had seen them. They weren't...scared," he finished lamely, his voice trailing off. He wasn't looking at her, but he could feel the understanding radiating off his sister. She squeezed his hand, and he made no move to pull away.

"I don't think they mind, not here. I don't know about other places—Archenland, Calormen," she began, her voice surprisingly hesitant. His sister was always so sure of herself. "It's not—it's not like England." She paused, but Edmund made no move to say anything, and so she forged ahead. "The Narnians, it's all the same to them. Love. They don't mind if it's two men or," she swallowed, and her voice shook slightly with the following words, "two women."

Edmund looked at his sister, who was staring down at the lace of her cuff. Her face was pale, but a flush stained her neck. It had never really occurred to him, that it might happen to women. Back in England, there had sometimes been headlines in the paper, announcing the trial of a man charged with sodomy. On those occasions, he had made himself very small that the breakfast table, and had made sure he hit one of the boys at school. But there had never been any headlines about a woman, not that he knew of. He still felt a fool for not thinking of it, that a woman might love a woman the same way a man might live a man. And Susan—

"I don't think it's a bad thing." Her voice cracked a little, but he did the brotherly thing and pretended it didn't. "That it's different here. From England."

He took a deep breath, and let it out in a gusty sigh. "No. Neither do I." And they looked at one another and smiled, content to stay there, sitting on the grass in the sunlight.

Some things were different in Narnia—it was another country, after all. One couldn't expect it to be the same as England. And he would be forever glad that it wasn't the same.

**Well, here it is. The first of a series of Golden Age stories. If anyone's read my Merlin series, this isn't going to be formatted in the same way. Instead of all my oneshots being in the same place, they'll be divided into several different stories. This is only the first, set in the first few years of the Pevensie's reign when they were still settling into their new life.**

**The next chapter of this work is likely to be centering around Peter or Lucy, but you guys should know by now that I'm unreliable.**


	2. Old Eyes

**Old Eyes**

Sometimes, children grow up too fast. Children who went to school with bruises hidden beneath their clothes, children who spent their nights lying awake, trying to ignore the empty pit that was their stomach. Children without parents, whether stolen by illness, by war or simply abandoned. Children with siblings to be taken care of, kids younger than Lucy trailing behind them.

These too-old-children carried with them an air of melancholy acceptance, and their faces were decorated with the purple war paint of many a sleepless night. As the war had dragged on, month after month, and as the bombs had begun to fall on the city, he'd seen more and more of these children. The station—and later, the train they'd taken to the Professor's—had been full of them, standing out from the masses, their bleak acceptance so different from the frightened, and somewhat frantic, expressions of others.

He'd seen Susan, watched her carefully after the Coronation. She'd walked as though a great new weight had been placed upon her shoulders. It had, he knew, for he carried it with him also. The fate of a kingdom was no small matter. There was a new hardness to her face, which she hid from the rest behind her pretty smiles, but not he.

They were not so different, Susan and he. When they had still gone to church with their parents—back before the war before it had been razed to the ground by a German bomb—their friends had commented what a striking pair they had made; she so dark, and he so light. Like night and day, they had said, as different as could be. And for a long time, they had been. He had been the athletic, popular, charming older son, who did what older sons so often did, and overshadowed their brothers. She had been a perfect daughter, obedient, careful, and played her role of little mother to perfection.

Then had come Narnia; a mysterious land of snow and magic, filled with talking beasts and mythical creature. There had been a witch, who had stolen their brother, and her beasts, who had hunted them across the new world. A war had followed, and he had been a leader, had carried a sword and had killed people. He had watched his brother die, and he had watched his brother be returned to them.

He woke in the night, sometimes, shivering and sweating as he waited for the echoes of screams to stop ringing in his ears, and for the scent of blood to fade from his nostrils. He heard claws clicking against stone in the corridor outside and had to stop himself from screaming—because it wasn't Maugrim and his wolves, come to kill him, it was only Kalaa, who had once saved him from being gored by a minotaur.

He watched Edmund, watched as the brother who had drawn so far into himself began to come back, began to unfold and reveal new parts of himself every day. He watched as he regained the calculating look in his eye, but no longer was it directed at him. Instead, Edmund cast it beyond the castle walls, to where the lands beyond Narnia began to stir, now that the Eternal Winter no longer reigned.

Even Lucy had not escaped. She, too, was older than she had any right to be. Gone was the little girl who cried when she found a robin with a broken wing. Instead, she drew her brows together, and pressed her lips into a tight line, and requested that somebody bring her the supplies necessary to help.

He watched Susan as she used her words and wiles to bring those Narnians still loyal to the Witch to see reason, smiling and speaking quietly and deliberately, until they with whom she had been speaking believed that they had come to the decision on their own. His sister wore her horn at her side when she went riding, but the callouses made by the bowstring made the foolish men she danced with remember that she was a queen who been to war, instead of a beautiful figurehead, a toy for their amusement.

Edmund spent hours in the library, and among the fauns, learning the customs and ways of Narnia, and recovering all that had been lost in the Witch's reign. His brother was young, his hands and cuffs perpetually stained with the ink he used to write his nights. Sometimes, he saw him going into Susan's room, late at night, his face twisted in a fear that he recognized, and never spoke of it at breakfast. His brother was young and spent his time with books and old fauns, but his brother was able to outride him on a horse and would be proven to be the better strategist.

Lucy was younger still; while the others began to fill their days with royal duties and tasks, she spent hers amongst the Narnians, playing with their children, gossiping and joking with the rest. She learnt how to swim amongst the naiads, and the dryads taught her to braid the different flowers that grew in the meadows and glades. In turn, she told the satyrs all the fairytales and legends of England, the ones with princesses fair and knights noble, where lives were saved with a single kiss, and kingdoms brought to their knees at the sight of a single soldier's might.

He had still thought her a child, unchanged by Narnia. He had hoped she was. He did not wish for her to grow up as well; he wished for her to be a child a little longer. But it was to Lucy that the Narnians came, it was to she that they brought their petty squabbles and everyday problems. She loved them, and they knew this and trusted her for it.

All four of them were changed; grown. Such a thing happened when children were faced with betrayal, with wars, with battlefields full of dead and dying soldiers, crying and bleeding beneath a bright sky. Such a thing happened when four children are crowned kings and queens of a kingdom recovering from occupation.

He had talked about it with Susan once. She had told him that she believed it would have happened anyway if they had stayed in England. She had told him that she believed it was better this way, and he couldn't help but agree.

They had grown up too fast, and there was nothing to but make the best of it.

**Two down, two to go! Up next is, as you can probably guess, is either Lucy or Susan.**


	3. A Purpose

**A Purpose**

Back in England, if anybody had thought to ask her, Lucy would have told them that no, she didn't particularly want to leave her home, even if it was being bombed. She'd have much rather stayed with Mum, who would be terribly lonely, all alone with no children or husband to keep her company, and all her friends far too busy to spare a minute for socializing.

However, no one had thought it worth asking. None of them—the grown-ups, at least, and Edmund—cared if she wanted to go, or not. She was a child, and a girl besides, so her opinion didn't matter. It was expected she would go along with whatever the grown-ups in her life decided.

Of course, some good had come from them being sent away, not least that Edmund was back to normal again, the pinched, mean look that had lived on his face ever since he went away to school finally gone. She had, of course, forgiven her siblings for not believing her when she found Narnia, Edmund in particular, who had subsequently lied about not going. She couldn't quite blame them for not believing her, as much as she wanted to. It wasn't their fault, they were growing up, and the grown-ups had convinced them that magic wasn't real, and nothing was more magical than a mysterious land in the back of a wardrobe.

Since no one had ever cared what she thought before—beyond what colour she wanted her new dress in or how cooked she wanted her toast, but that wasn't important, and so didn't count—it had been a pleasant surprise when the Narnians had begun to ask her what she thought of things. They had even asked if she minded terribly becoming their Queen, and specifically stated that if she didn't that was perfectly alright, and everyone would understand. She said yes, of course, and not just because they asked, but she had assumed that it was a given; there was a prophecy about it, the four human kings and queens. Whatever would they have done if she'd said no?

After the battle—but still, before the coronation, when she formally became Queen, in the eyes of Aslan and of Narnia—there was a certain air of deference from the Narnians she encountered. It was so very different to the way that she had been treated in England, where no one had been rude, simply rather dismissive, since she was only a little girl who spent far too much time playing with her brothers and climbing trees to be considered proper. The Narnians respected her, and not just because she was their queen, and respecting queens was the proper thing to do. They respected her because she was someone they had reason to respect, someone who had saved them from an endless winter, and given some of them the gift of life with her cordial, and someone who had seen their Lord Aslan restored to life after the Witch had murdered him.

In Narnia, she was free to make her own decisions. If the mood overtook her, she could order one of the badgers who worked in the kitchens to bring her sunberries—which only grew at the tops of the tallest mountains, and required the help of several different beasts to harvest—in her room, during the wee hours of the morning, and it would be done. She could take a horse and ride for hours at a time, going where ever her heart desired. She could, and had, spend a night on the beach, falling asleep to sound of the waves, and the mermaids playing amongst the waves.

Here, people cared what she thought, beyond her clothing and breakfast preferences—they had still asked her these things, of course, but there had been more, so she didn't mind. They asked her who she would like as her personal guards, they asked her which of the horses she would like to ride. They asked her what she thought the name of the new Narnian ship should be, built in honour of her and her siblings' victory against the Witch. And, when she answered, they listened. Axa and Ildon were her guards, Ollyn her horse. They had even listened when she wanted to name the ship '_The Splendour Hyaline_', no matter how much Edmund had shaken his head.

And she liked it. She liked that they respected her, and she liked that they listened to her and what she had to say. It made her feel important, and as though she had a purpose. In England, she'd often felt as though she were a waste of space, taking up room that could be occupied by a son, who would at least be more useful than her. She'd had no purpose, none beyond becoming somebody's wife, and cleaning his home, cooking his meals, and carrying his children. She'd once told Mother that she didn't really fancy marrying anyone, not if he was going to be the boss. Mother had laughed, and smoothed back her hair, and told her that she would feel differently when she was older.

Susan had never liked it when she disagreed with grown-ups; it made her flush a horribly blotchy red, that didn't make her look pretty at all. Lucy was rather ashamed to say that, before Narnia, she'd thought Susan rather a suck-up, who enjoyed pleasing grown-ups far too much to be healthy. Of course, she knew better now. She knew that all of Susan's peacemaking and quiet obedience had been a bid to make people think well of her, and respect her, even if it was only because she cooked dinner twice a week.

One night, strolling along the cliff path, the grass between her toes and the wind in her hair, she wondered what would have become of them if she had never decided to hide in the wardrobe. After deciding that Peter would have run away to join the army, Susan stuck in a loveless marriage, and Edmund unhappy and alone after pushing everyone away, she gave it up, as it only served to make her sad.

Lucy was glad they'd found Narnia, was glad that they'd help save it from the tyrant who ruled it, but more so because it had saved her family from themselves. In Narnia, they had found a purpose, found respect. They had found each other. And they weren't inclined to lose each other again.


End file.
